


dreamsong

by brophigenia



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Alternate Universe- Wolfsong by TJ Klune, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Jealousy, M/M, Mates, Recreational Drug Use, Scenting, True Love, Voyeurism, Werewolves, Wolfsong, did we need this?, i think we did
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-16 08:24:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16082252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brophigenia/pseuds/brophigenia
Summary: Nothing was fucking easy. There was nothing easy about any of this, least of all K being his mate, destined for him. Destined forhim,and him alone, though K saw fit to fuck his way through every room he found himself in.(AKA, the Wolfsong AU apparently some of you have been waiting for.)





	dreamsong

**Author's Note:**

> goddess of filth, yada yada yada. they're werewolves, harold. 
> 
> lyrics by blackbear (hell is where i dreamt of u and woke up alone)

_ (cause i just railed down enough lines tonight _ _   
_ _ to spell your first and last name) _

 

K is high again. He’s high and rowdy with it, bobbing and weaving and vehement in his fury, and Proko can only sigh and stick close to his side. He fucking hates the smell and sound of all the people close around them, crushed together in the too-narrow hallways of K’s McMansion. He fucking hates house parties. 

He hates house parties and he hates fucking  _ people  _ who aren’t  _ pack.  _ He wishes they were getting fucked up in a field somewhere; he wishes they were  _ alone,  _ except for  _ packpackpack,  _ Skov and Swan and Jiang. And  _ K.  _

_ K, K, K, K.  _

Fuck.  _ Fuck.  _

K is high again, so much coke hoovered up his nose that he smells like crystalized energy, heart thundering and pupils blown. The drugs racing through his blood overpower the usual scent of him, underneath, the scent that is like the ocean and leather and  _ lemons.  _ Fucking  _ lemons.  _ He could hardly go by the fucking produce aisle anymore without getting hard. It was ridiculous. 

It was  _ K,  _ and Proko pressed himself close to K’s side, the wolf prowling beneath his skin.  _ His  _ wolf. His wolf, who looked at K and always said  _ matematemate,  _ who didn’t understand why Proko didn’t  _ claimfuckbite.  _

Like it was just that easy. 

Nothing was fucking easy. There was nothing  _ easy  _ about any of this, least of all K being his  _ mate,  _ destined for him. Destined for  _ him,  _ and him alone, though K saw fit to fuck his way through every room he found himself in. 

And that was unfair. It was unfair of Proko to think like that, because he didn’t  _ mean  _ it. He did and he didn’t, but he mostly didn’t, because K wasn’t  _ his.  _ Wasn’t his, and didn’t have any obligation to be, despite that Proko was  _ K’s  _ and would be until the day he joined his brothers and sisters in the stars, chasing the moon forevermore. 

Sometimes, he reflected, wincing with the corniness of his last thought, being a werewolf fucking  _ sucked.  _ You got oddly poetic about  _ everything  _ and maudlin and there was the ethics of slaughtering local wildlife and then you had to deal with finding someone who smelled  _ perfect  _ because they were  _ perfect  _ but there was no guarantee they thought you were  _ perfect,  _ too. 

K caught the eye of some townie motherfucker in a fucking pucca shell necklace. Proko wanted to  _ die.  _

“That one,” K mumbled at him, and so Proko went, grinning wide and white. If it was just a  _ bit  _ too toothsome, well, the guy was too fucking drunk to get  _ too  _ scared. 

He should’ve never volunteered for this. Never, except for the third time that K ever hooked up with anybody they were  _ cruel  _ to him, they were  _ cruel  _ and Proko hunted them down and  _ killed them _ for it, for  _ daring-  _ and then when it became clear that K was going to continue with his hookups Proko couldn’t fucking  _ stand  _ the thought of him being alone, being  _ unsafe.  _

And so that was how they had come to the logical solution of Proko picking up for K, sniffing out his hookup, and then sitting in the corner and fucking  _ watching.  _

Because on top of Proko being a fucking werewolf, he was also a masochistic self-martyring motherfucker. 

There was one single good thing about the whole ordeal, though, Proko mused as he sat in a chair and watched K get positively fucking  _ reamed  _ by the drunk townie, digging his claws into the flesh of his knees, bared by his artfully ripped jeans. He was getting  _ really  _ good at controlling his emotions and his shift. 

The first couple times they’d done this he’d full-on shifted, stumbling into en suite bathrooms and tossing himself out windows so he could be hidden but still close enough to  _ hear,  _ to make  _ sure  _ K was safe. 

That had graduated to him having to keep his eyes on the floor because they were glowing a manic, sickly orange, and finally there was just this, his teeth and claws out but relatively hidden from the inebriated gaze of the townie currently fucking his mate into the mattress. 

Self-growth. Progress. All things Proko was gaining. All things Proko didn’t give a flying  _ fuck  _ about. 

_ I hope you die in a fire,  _ he thought direly at the townie, making vicious eye contact as the motherfucker moaned out in obnoxious pleasure.  _ I hope your balls fall off. I hope you fucking get ripped to fucking shreds in some terrible factory accident, you waste of fucking space.  _

He dug his claws further into his knees. He breathed, blood rolling down his shins. 

 

_ (my nose is burning  _ _   
_ _ too much cocaine) _

 

K woke with a head-splitting hangover, groaning; he burrowed further into Proko’s side, an action that Proko was able to fully enjoy because he’d stuffed K into the shower the night before and scrubbed his skin pink to rid him of the townie’s scent, his  _ sweat,  _ his  _ saliva.  _ He buried his face into K’s hair and sniffed him,  _ oceanleatherlemons  _ along with stale sweat that tasted faintly of coke, when he licked his lips. 

“I want to die,” K announced, voice cracking. Proko hummed in commiseration and growled happily when K twisted even closer, obliging in his misery. “You’re so weird, wolfboy,” he mumbled, voice quieter but no less rough, when Proko couldn’t help but lick at his neck, snuffling where his scent was strongest.  _ Claimbitehere,  _ the wolf pointed out helpfully, as if Proko wasn’t already aware of the mechanics of  _ mating.  _

“You like it.” Proko retorted, up against his skin, muffled and petulant. Like a fucking kid. K made him into the most ridiculous person. 

The most ridiculous  _ werewolf.  _

“Yeah, yeah,” K said, and his face was red with exertion when he finally sat up, stretching. “I’m gonna go fucking puke and then I want breakfast.” He rose, naked as the day he’d been born, and padded off leisurely to the bathroom. The sounds of him retching noisily followed, and Proko wrinkled his nose even as he got up and started to rifle through K’s drawers for something decent to wear. The trackpants he found were just a smidge too tight and the tee shirt just a  _ hair  _ too small, but whatever. He’d fucking deal. They would just go get some Hardee’s drive-through. K loved nothing more than hash rounds and gravy when he was hungover, with a supersized Cherry Coke to bring him back to the land of the living. 

When he turned around, K was frozen in the doorway of the en suite, staring at him. Proko gave him a grin and bumped their hips together as he went to brush his teeth. “You having a fucking stroke, Kayze?” He threw over his shoulder, light and easy, teasing with the nickname. K shook himself and rolled his eyes. 

“I don’t know why you let me rail so many lines back last night. You’re supposed to be my wolfy protector, and yet you let me get too fucked up.  _ Again.”  _ K complained ridiculously, falling back into bed, wrapped up in his bathrobe. It gaped at the thighs and Proko looked away from the flash of pale skin the move exposed. 

“Like I could fucking stop you,” he mumbled. 

“I don’t know my limits,” K agreed good-naturedly, and finally got up to put on some fucking  _ clothes.  _

_ Thank fucking werewolf Jesus,  _ Proko thought in relief. 

K’s bedroom door banged open, Skov falling in with Swan on his heels, entirely too fucking awake for the morning after a total bangarang. 

“We getting hash rounds or not, motherfuckers?” Swan asked, as irritable as a poked bear. “It’s nine forty-five.” 

Hardee’s stopped serving breakfast at ten. 

They were out the door and in the drive-through by nine fifty-two. 

The whole car smelled like  _ pack,  _ like K’s  _ oceanleatherlemon  _ in the driver’s seat _ ,  _ Skov’s  _ wolfsugarbloodwolf,  _ Swan’s  _ coffedaffodilsmint,  _ Jiang asleep and  _ wolfraingrapeswolf  _ between them in the backseat. 

Proko’s  _ skin  _ was humming. They were all around him, lighting up the car with their colors and their thoughts and their scents. 

K,  _ alphatethermatematematealpha,  _ rested his hand heavily on the back of Proko’s neck and it felt like  _ home.  _ It felt so fucking good. He ached. He  _ ached.  _

_ Claimfuckbite,  _ his wolf demanded constantly in his chest, but it quieted under K’s touch. 

_ Everything  _ quieted under K’s touch. 

 

_ (i don’t even fucking care though _ _   
_ _ i’m probably gonna die) _

 

Lynch is a witchblooded motherfucker who thinks he knows shit about their pack and  _ doesn’t,  _ and Proko fucking hates him. He hates the whole pack of them, encroaching on Proko’s territory acting like they  _ belong  _ there, when Proko was here  _ first.  _ He was here  _ first  _ and he hates Lynch the most, even more than Lynch’s  _ wolfleathergrassmintwolf _ alpha,  _ Gansey,  _ fuck him and fuck Lynch and fuck their townie bitten-wolf and fuck their human girl, too, for good measure. Fuck them all. He hated them.

He hated them, but K, his  _ alpha,  _ his  _ mate,  _ reeked of fucking  _ want _ every single time he laid eyes on Lynch, gave Lynch fucking  _ presents  _ and raced him through the streets, coming back with flushed cheeks and a boyish smile that Proko had never caused, so  _ enamored.  _ So  _ enraptured.  _

Proko wanted to rip Lynch’s throat out with his  _ teeth.  _

Lynch knew it, too. 

“Listen, wolf.” Lynch said, for the billionth fucking time. “I don’t want anything to do with Kavinsky. You can quit growling at me in the hallways, you’re embarrassing yourself.” So superior. He was  _ so superior.  _ Proko flashed his eyes and took a threatening step forward. Lynch’s tattoo twitched, feathers ruffling where they wrapped around from his nape and framed his adam’s apple. He was hatefully beautiful. He was everything Proko wasn’t. 

There was nothing to say, no rebuttal that Proko could give, but he didn’t want to argue. He wanted  _ blood.  _ He wanted  _ violence.  _ He wanted to  _ tearbiterendrip-  _

“Proko!” K said, sharp and  _ commanding.  _ It was the tone of an  _ alpha,  _ and Proko shivered with it. Usually K’s voice was a drawl, or a snicker, or a groan. He was usually curled in on himself, or draped over something, or slouched in the driver’s seat of the Mitsu. But sometimes he was  _ this,  _ he was tall and commanding and his eyes were unclouded, pupils sharp and mouth flat,  _ serious.  _ Sometimes he spoke and the trees sighed with it, the grass ruffled and the hair on the back of Proko’s neck stood up and he was always,  _ always  _ Proko’s alpha but in these moments he was  _ more so.  _

“C’mon.” K said, and so he did, he went to K’s side and bared his throat and couldn’t stop trembling, so fucking done in by K and his  _ everything.  _ K looked at Lynch and Proko’s wolf didn’t like that, snarled and growled, but he kept his mouth shut because his alpha could do what he wanted. He could do  _ whatever  _ he wanted. 

“Control your wolves, Kavinsky,” Lynch sneered. “It’s almost the full. Lock them up if they can’t handle it.” A warning, but a taunt, too. 

_ That  _ was too far, but before Proko could growl K beat him to it, surprising both him and Lynch, whose eyes widened and then narrowed. 

“Keep your pretty fuckin’ nose out of my pack’s business, Lynch.” K snarled, and then towed Proko away with an arm thrown around his shoulders, tugging him in close. 

Proko’s gut filled with victory even as his heart thundered with shame from K having to call him down in the first place. What the hell kind of second was he, if he couldn’t even  _ function  _ properly in public? Fuck. 

K knuckled roughly at the top of his head.  _ It’sokayit’sokaypackpackpack,  _ their bond rang, and K spoke right in his ear. “You did good, P. Can’t roll over for anybody but me, huh? You’re  _ my  _ bitch, not fucking Lynch’s.” It was meant to be light, teasing, but it came out somehow heavier, and Proko knew that K felt the tight sharpness of the moon, too, even if he never mentioned it. Even if he was human. 

_ You’re  _ my  _ bitch,  _ K said, and even as he burned with shame and self-loathing there was another fire too, pitiful arousal.  _ You’re  _ my  _ bitch.  _ It was degrading. It was ridiculous. It was. It was. 

His wolf howled in his head. His spine felt molten. He wanted it. He wanted to roll over and bare his belly and open his fucking legs and let K, let him,  _ fuck.  _

_ Yesmatematematealphayes,  _ the wolf purred, so fucking persuasive. Worse than usual, since it was almost the full. 

God, he needed to fucking  _ run.  _

“Soon,” K said, like he could hear Proko’s thoughts. 

 

_ (and i swear to god if the alcohol and drugs don’t kill me _ _   
_ _ i don’t know what will— other than you) _

 

Another night, another party, but this one thrown by some locals, this one thrown in a field on the far reaches.  _ We’ll only go for a bit,  _ K had said,  _ gotta drop some shit off.  _ He meant that he needed to go take some coke to some people, his pockets full of little baggies, because the yokels would pay out the ass for barely a couple lines’ worth. K’s shit was cleaner, finer,  _ safer  _ than the shit they cooked up in their fucking trailers. 

It was the full, but the moon wasn’t yet high, and so there they were, he and Skov and Jiang prowling out of their fucking skins and Swan edgy with it, lips pursed with misgivings. It was cutting it close, but K was their alpha and he knew what was best for them. He was their alpha and he would take  _ care  _ of them. The moon lulled them, whispered promises in their ears, and Proko kept trying to focus on K’s scent but it was  _ hard,  _ it was so hard; he wanted to be stronger. He needed to be stronger. They trailed behind K like lost pups, K getting caught up with his infrequent customers and getting offered drinks and pills and pussy. He was a god, prowling through them. In his element. 

It was easy, in reflection, to see how he forgot himself. Forgot the time. The moon may have tugged at him more than it tugged at humans who  _ weren’t  _ alphas of werewolf packs, but there was still a disconnect there. K had no wolf prowling beneath his skin, pushing at his bones, trying to get out of its skinprison. 

Skov was the newest-turned; Proko had been born a wolf and Jiang had been bitten years ago, nearly a child when it happened. Skov had been bitten the summer before he came to Aglionby, and he still had trouble. Still wasn’t quite adjusted to the animal within. 

This became apparent when some douche knocked into Skov’s shoulder and spilled his drink down Skov’s front, too close and too  _ notpack  _ and too  _ human.  _

Skov’s spine rippled. Proko watched it happen with a distant kind of interest, the implications lost on his stuttering, moon-fevered brain.  _ Packturnpack,  _ his wolf rumbled, and Proko was ready for it. Proko shivered with the beginnings of the change, too, as Skov was wracked with the tremors. 

Swan was swearing and Jiang was no better off than Proko and then there was contact,  _ pack,  _ Swan’s big hand wrapped around his nape, muscling the three of them with his bulk at a near run towards the edge of the field, towards the treeline. He was talking, a low rumble that didn’t register to Proko’s ears. There were too many people. Too many foreign scents. He hated it. Where was the alpha? 

_ Pleasepleaseplease  _ Swan said through their connection, frantic and desperate enough that the communication came easy. Usually they could only feel emotions from Swan, not outright words. It sobered Proko a bit, calmed him down enough that he was able to help Swan shepherd Skov and Jiang along, towards the trees. They’d be safe in the trees. They could run there. They could  _ shift. _ It would be okay. The moon was so high, so round. So  _ full.  _

Dizzying. 

_ Alphawherealphawherewhywhymoonshiftshiftshift,  _ the wolf panted, and Proko matched its labored breaths, feeling as if he were going to  _ molt,  _ everything suddenly  _ too much.  _

He barely broke the treeline before he was shifting, a shuddering transformation that came on quickly. Too quickly. It  _ hurt,  _ a brighter pain than he was used to, his tense muscles not given enough time to relax, to unclench, before he was suddenly and forcefully  _ wolf.  _

And then they were running. Running.  _ Running.  _

Proko threw his head back and sang a song of seeking, of  _ where are you, Alpha? _

Skov and Jiang joined in, mournful and  _ accusing.  _

Swan was silent, but ran behind them with watchful eyes. 

 

_ (and it’s all because i dreamt of you _ _   
_ _ and woke up alone) _

 

He woke naked, with blood in his teeth. 

The blood tasted green and harmless, so either he’d taken down a deer or a vegan the night before. Going by the lack of hair, he was probably not guilty of homicide. Though, if he did kill someone as a wolf, could he be tried in a court of law as a human? What would the DNA evidence say? These were all thoughts that circled in his mind. He couldn’t fucking  _ concentrate.  _ He felt untethered, unsettled. It had been a long time since he was an Omega, since he was young and newly-packless, but he remembered the beginnings of the process well. Remembered how nothing made sense and everything was  _ too much  _ and the pull of his Alpha had faded. 

“Fuck,” he slurred aloud, too muzzy to even summon up the proper amounts of panic that the situation called for.  _ “Fuck.”  _ He repeated, and rose shaky-legged on two feet to try and find the others. It was cold. The brambles underfoot only shredded his soles for a second but the constant barrage of them made up for his quick healing. 

Nothing was  _ right.  _ Since they’d— since K had become his alpha, since they’d formed a pack first with just the two of them but then Jiang, and Swan and Skov, later, the full had always been  _ good.  _ Nights running through the Henrietta woods, singing their joy to the sky until they could shift back, change into the clothes K kept for them in the Mitsu’s trunk. Go back to their makeshift den, tangle up together in K’s massive bed.  _ Together.  _

But last night— 

last night it had just been the betas, it had been the betas and their alpha had  _ never _ come, no matter how much they howled, how shrilly they begged him to come. And it had been not  _ right,  _ they had been  _ aloneabandonedalphawherealphaKalphaKalphaK _ and Proko was  _ sick _ with it, sick with the congealed blood in his teeth and the chill and the  _ longing.  _

Skov and Swan were curled together like pups at the base of a lightning-struck tree. Swan’s cheeks looked purplish from the chill, even with Skov pressed all along his body, radiating heat like a furnace. There was blood in Skov’s eyelashes, across his forehead, in his hair, like he’d had a gash that healed and left only the evidence of injury, dried blood and uncertainty. 

“Proko,” Swan sighed in clear relief, and opened his arms so that Proko could press in and nuzzle his throat, licking roughly at the skin there. It made Swan jump. He shouldn’t have done it. He wasn’t wolfskinned. He didn’t lick people when he wasn’t wolfskinned. 

He’d forgotten that, in his syrupy-slowness. 

Nothing was right. 

They moved as one being to find Jiang, already awake and snappish, eyes flashing and teeth too-sharp for the morning after a moon. 

They managed to backtrack enough to find some semblance of clothing, and then it was a long hike back to K’s house. Swan’s phone had died and the wolves had left theirs in the Mitsu, assuming they wouldn’t need them. Everyone they talked to was already there. What use were their phones? 

K flung the door open when they came up the drive; he looked like he’d not slept the whole night, eyes shadowed black and hair a mess. He looked fucking  _ stricken,  _ not like himself at all, and it made Proko let out a low whine, his stomach clenching. 

He was ready to forgive. He was ready to  _ forget.  _ He was ready to throw himself at K’s feet and beg for any scraps he could get. From the vibratory tremors that Skov and Jiang were emitting, they probably were in the same boat. 

Swan, however, was  _ not.  _

“What the  _ fuck  _ was that?” Swan exploded as soon as he was within arm’s reach to K, fists already clenched before he swung one, big as a sledgehammer, into K’s  _ face.  _

_ Packfightpackalphabrotheralphamateno _ **_nonono,_ ** his wolf whimpered. 

K didn’t punch back; he took it without complaint, which was the only thing that kept them from attacking Swan in defense of their alpha. 

“I—“ K said, and fell silent before he could say anything else. Swan growled, as menacing as any wolf ever tried to be. 

_ “Fuck  _ this,” he growled, shouldering past K and disappearing into the house for just a moment. “Come on,” Swan bit out when he reappeared, their jackets under his arm and K’s keys dangling from his fist. He jerked his chin at the three of them and they slid into the Mitsu’s backseat like ducks in a row. 

Proko let himself take one more look back at K as Swan drove them back to the dorms. He looked wrecked, lip busted and knees weak on his own front lawn. His hands flexed uselessly at his side. 

Proko’s chest  _ ached.  _

_ Everything  _ ached. 

  
  


_ (half an hour feels forever _ _   
_ _ and a fucking day.) _

 

They stayed away longer than Proko thought  _ possible,  _ days stretching into two weeks where they alleviated the symptoms of their withdrawal by constant physical contact, tangled ankles in the aisles between the rows of neat oak desks in Latin class, fingertips rubbing behind ears during lunch period, bodies piled together in narrow dorm room single beds. 

Still there were the dreams and the pangs of terrorized longing and grief and bitter  _ remorse,  _ K’s feelings pushing their way in. 

At first it only made Swan more furious, more determined to stay away. Skov suffered the most from it, from the distance, and no amount of physical contact was enough to keep him satisfied. 

Finally, though, the fury simmered into  _ acceptance,  _ and every time they saw K across the quad he looked like  _ hell,  _ like he’d been run over and buried for a couple days before he clawed his way back to the surface for a coke binge. 

Swan led them back, much as he’d led them away, muscling his way into K’s house and looking around at the disarray that must’ve been caused by K trying to break everything breakable in the first floor of the Kavinsky McMansion. 

“What a fucking  _ shithole.”  _ Swan announced, and clapped K on the shoulder. They made brief, intense eye contact for a moment. 

“Yeah, well, the maid fucked off to Guatemala last week.” K complained. “Fucking bitch.” 

And so they were a pack again, but K’s eyes were still full of bleak emotion and stark contrition, and Proko felt like he was going to be sick every time they were in the same room, even as he felt like he’d die every time they  _ weren’t.  _

They were all of them balancing on a knife’s edge, and Proko wasn’t sure when it was going to topple, only that it  _ was,  _ and  _ soon.  _

In which direction, he wasn’t as sure, but every ounce of his pessimism said  _ mayday, mayday, mayday.  _

His wolf slunk back and forth, circling.  _ Waiting.  _

 

_ (what a wonderful time  _ _   
_ _ to bring you back home.) _

 

K is throwing another house party, and Proko is not going. 

He is  _ staying home,  _ staying in his dorm room, leaving K to his own devices. He won’t take this anymore,  _ can’t  _ take this anymore. 

He imagines K picking out some drunk townie, having to put in actual  _ work  _ to pull whoever it is, lead them up the stairs to his room, his  _ bed,  _ where Proko has only ever been when it stank of  _ others,  _ where Proko dreams alternately of sleeping in and  _ burning,  _ replacing with a new mattress that would smell only of  _ them,  _ together, and no one else. 

He drinks enough that even his wolf-strong system is overwhelmed by it, drinks everything that Jiang has stashed away. He’ll be pissed later, but Proko can’t think in abstracts and futures. There is only the here and now, and  _ here and now _ he needs to be  _ fucked up.  _

Proko drinks and he drinks and he  _ drinks,  _ and when he stumbles into bed he does it thinking of what they’d read in his Italian Literature class last week—  _ Marcuccio, with very cold hands, in July as in January.  _

Marcuccio of cold hands, and K with cold eyes and a cold  _ heart,  _ but hands fever hot and  _ soft.  _

He falls asleep like that, sprawled atop the covers half-dressed, and spares his last waking thought for imagining K touching some faceless  _ notpack _ motherfucker with his hot, faithless hands. 

He wakes in the early morning, barely four thirty— squinting at his digital clock, the numbers glowing blue, groaning softly and making to roll back over, to catch a few more hours. 

He starts to do just that but is impeded— impeded by a hot hand curled around one of his bare ankles like a brand, a shackle, a  _ kiss.  _

“Hmm?” He mumbles, still mostly asleep, uncomprehending. Stupid with it, and lulled by the scent of his alpha, at once familiar and arousing and  _ comforting.  _

“Shh,” K whispers, rough, and tightens his grip a bit. “Go back to sleep.” As if his inducement is more likely to make it happen— Proko wakes up fully at the sound of his words, and props himself up on his elbows, not wanting to tear his ankle from K’s grasp. Wanting, in fact, to memorize the heat and the breadth exactly, so he can always conjure this memory as vividly as if it were occurring wherever and whenever he may have need for it. 

His eyes adjust quickly to the low light, glowing orange— he watches K breathe, counts the knobs of his spine through his thin white wifebeater, watches him turn something over and over in the hand not touching Proko. 

“What—“ he starts, and then realizes what it is that K is fiddling with. 

A stone wolf, carved by hand and given to Proko in the cradle by a man long since dead and burnt and buried in the ground, a wolf and an alpha and a  _ father.  _

K turns, quicksilver-limbed and passion-filled eyes, face twisted in something like anguish as he bears Proko down onto the mattress, crushed beneath him. 

“I didn’t know.” K says, intense.  _ Earnest  _ the way he never is. He cages Proko’s face with both his hands, the wolf laid on the mattress next to him. “I didn’t know, I  _ swear.”  _ He argues it as if he’s expecting to be called a liar, and Proko can’t think, can’t make sense of any of this, because K is between his thighs, pressed tight against him and speaking right up against Proko’s  _ mouth.  _

“What—“ he says again, even as he’s accepting the drugging kisses K is pressing on him, the swipes of tongue K is slipping him. 

“Proko, I didn’t  _ know.”  _ K moans, and Proko opens his legs wider, nods without understanding, claws at K’s jeans. He will give it up. He will  _ let  _ K, he will let him  _ take this,  _ he will give away himself the same way he’s given up his wolf and his heart and his loyalty, all for this prince of a human, this  _ alpha.  _ This  _ child,  _ ignorant of the true ways of wolves, and probably objectively undeserving of all of Proko’s gifts. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Proko chants, bares his throat to his  _ alpha,  _ his  _ mate.  _ His  _ everything.  _

“Shh,” K says, stopping.  _ Stopping, _ like he doesn’t understand that Proko is going to  _ implode  _ without K finishing what he started. He’d been so good. He’d been  _ so good,  _ and resigned himself. 

K had been the one to fuck it all up, and he  _ has  _ to make it worth all of the pain to come. He  _ has to.  _

“Shh,” K says, and smoothes a tender hand over Proko’s sweat-soaked hair. “I know, Dick  _ told me,  _ and I  _ know,  _ now. I know, and I’m saying  _ yes,  _ Proko.” 

_ I’m saying yes,  _ K says, and Proko does not understand for the longest moment, stretching between them endlessly.  _ Dick told me.  _

K is saying  _ yes,  _ and Proko’s wolf  _ howls  _ with it,  _ howls,  _ sings of  _ claimbitemate,  _ and Proko finally,  _ finally  _ can tell it   _ okay. Okay.  _

K is saying  _ yes,  _ and Proko rolls them over, sets his profane mouth to K’s neck in the space he’s been admiring for  _ years,  _ imagined under his teeth a million times or more. 

“Yeah, yes, yeah,” K eggs him on, and they are naked, then, and Proko is fumbling for lube, lotion, anything slick, not even sure what he’s going to _do_ with it until he’s straddling K’s thighs, full to the _throat_ of K’s cock, his _Alpha’s_ cock, his _mate’s_ cock, and his teeth in K’s _throat._

“Nobody else,” K promises,  _ vows,  _ fervent and sure the way only he can be; when K decides something, it’s  _ decided.  _ Proko is not interested in the hows and whys behind this decision. He is not interested in anything but  _ this,  _ belonging fully to K as K belongs fully to him, and his wolf is  _ manic  _ with his complete, utter  _ joy.  _

Everything is bright and everything is  _ K  _ and Proko rocks his hips, grinds his jaw, gasps through his nose and  _ comes,  _ sealing their union. 

_ Nobody else,  _ and his wolf howls in agreement. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> follow me @ brophigenia.tumblr.com


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